The Laughing Man, Book Two: Goner

Chapter Fourteen

The night manager at the hotel was very sympathetic, listening to Harley's bullshit sob story. The large woman, in her mid-thirties, held her hand to her mouth as Harley explained about the abusive boyfriend she had just run away from. Too scared to remember everything after he nearly killed her, she had left her identification and credit cards behind. She couldn't go back to get them but could the manager please just take her cash and give her a room for night? The bruises and cuts on her face sold the story more than her words. The female manager was shocked by the pitiful guest's condition, agreeing to give her a room off the record, as Harley figured she would. The trick to selling a lie was to keep it as close to the truth as possible.

With a keycard in hand, and a promise to consider calling the police on her ex, she went up to her newly acquired room. As she fiddled with the keycard in its slot, Harley amused herself by thinking how a phone call to the police, reporting Mr. J's domestic abuse, would go. Setting the bag on edge of the bed, she looked around the unsurprisingly average accommodations. It was typical for a hotel, king bed, nightstand, dresser, desk, TV. The smell in the air of chocolate, from the factory down the road, tickled her nose and heightened her hunger. While not as luxurious as Thomas' guest room, it was still nicer than her bedroom with Mr. J. A pang went through her as she thought of him again, but she dismissed it to focus on more important concerns. Slipping her cell phone out of the bag, she reluctantly called the one person who might aid her.

Thomas' voice was alert. "Hello?" Probably hadn't gotten a wink of sleep with Geoffrey's death looming over his thoughts.

"Hi," she said, trying to not to betray her exhaustion.

"Harleen." It was obvious that he wasn't happy to hear from her. "Why are you calling me this late?"

"I'm sorry. I just didn't know who else to call." She sat down on the bed. "I'm hurt and I need a doctor." Harley sighed. "No those aren't the right words. I need you, Thomas." Tears began to well in the corner of her eyes and she wiped them away with shaking hands. "I did it. I left him. I left Mr. J."

"Where are you?" His tone changed, concerned, urgent, sharp. She breathed a sigh of relief that he could put aside the conflicts in his head to help.

Harley gave him the name of the hotel and her room number. Ending the call, she sat there, listening to the hum of the heater while ignoring the tears that forced their way down her cheeks. Her mind was in a state of mild shock, numbed and unable to believe what she had done. She really had left Mr. J. Images flashed through head, settling on that final moment when she shot him. The look in his eyes just before she turned. God, she was so stupid to do that. And now, she was on her own, a wanted criminal without a plan or any thoughts of the future. The act had been too impulsive. Harley had no idea what she was going to do. Before, her life had a purpose. Sitting there alone, staring at an ugly painting of a duck, she had to wonder "what next?"

She must have fallen asleep because the next thing she knew, she was laying sideways across the bed, her feet slung over the side like a child. Her winter coat was still wrapped around her body and there was pounding at the door. Her groggy mind barely registered that Thomas must have arrived and she went to open the door for him, turning her face away when his startled eyes took her in. The gesture wasn't out of shame, but rather out of her guilt for plunging him back into the incredible mess she called a life. Thomas didn't deserve to be in the middle of this again. His hands might be stained as red as hers, but he was still the best man she knew. He deserved so much better.

"Harleen." His voice was almost a whisper. He stepped into the room, the door closing behind him.

Her back turned to him, she could hear his empathy for her. Harley closed her eyes as he closed the gap between them, his hands gently removing the heavy coat from her shoulders. As it dropped to the floor, his tension was palpable, noticing the fluids that seeped through her shirt from her wounds, the streaks of dried blood in her hair. She felt his fingers at her waist, tugging her shirt upwards and she raised her arms, allowing him to pull the soaked fabric off her. Her eyes sealed, she imagined what the expression on his face might have looked like.